“I bet Lily Fulwell’s not been to see her to tell her Grace’s dead,” Vera continued as if Anne hadn’t interrupted. They didn’t seem on visiting terms. Someone should go. It’s only decent.” She fixed her bulging eyes on Anne, who stared back.
“Me? Why?”
“Well, you’re almost a friend of the family’s, aren’t you?”
“Hardly.”
And you did know Grace.”
“Not very well.”
“Look.” Vera Stanhope seemed to lose patience with the subtle approach. “I’ll tell you how it is. I’ve had everyone I can spare out looking for Edmund Fuwell. If he’s drinking he’s on a bloody long bender. It’s starting to look as if he might have something to hide.”
“You think he killed his daughter?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to think until I find him. Nancy Deakin looked out for him in the past. It just occurred to me that he might have gone to her again if he thought he was in bother.”
“Well, send one of your chaps round to ask.”
“Oh aye. And I expect she’d tell him! We don’t know much about Nancy but we do know that she can’t stand anyone in authority. I doubt if even I with all my charm could get much information from her. But you could go along as Grace’s friend. You could say that Grace had talked about her, that you thought she ought to be told what had happened. She might talk to you.” When there was no response she added, “Come on now. Give me a break. What do I have to do? Get down on my knees?” “No,” Anne said slowly. “We’ll go, Rachael, won’t we?”
Rachael was startled by the question. She hadn’t expected to be included. She felt like a child usually left out of games and picked suddenly for a team. She nodded.
Edie had returned to her book and still seemed absorbed. Now she spoke without looking up. “I don’t know how you get away with that sort of trick, Inspector Stanhope.”
Vera’s answer was sharp and immediate. “Because I get results, pet.
And in the end that’s what counts. That’s all the bosses want.”
Later that night when Rachael was in bed, but had the light on, still reading, there was a knock on her door. Thinking it was Edie she didn’t answer. Let Edie think she was already asleep. But the knock was repeated and Anne came in. She was wearing striped pyjamas with a drawstring and a fly. Some man’s. Left behind after a night of passion.
“Sorry,” Rachael said. “I thought it was my mother.”
“What is it between you and Edie? She seems OK.”
Usually Rachael would have shrugged, given an answer which meant nothing. And anyway Anne would be the last person she’d choose as confidante. But tonight she said, “Because she’s such a hypocrite.”
“In what way?”
“All the time I was growing up I was filled with the liberal party line. Openness. Trust. The need to talk things through. But when I asked her about stuff that was important to me the same rules didn’t apply.”
“What did you want to know?”
“About my father.”
“What specifically?”
“A name would have been a start.”
“Don’t you know anything about him?”
“Not a thing. And there’s no way of finding out. I checked.”
“Perhaps she had a good reason.”
“Like what? He was a murderer? A lunatic? I’m not even sure I want to get in touch with him, but I’d like the chance to make the choice.
I’m an adult. I don’t need protecting.”
“Maybe it’s no big deal. When I was a kid I’d willingly have disowned my old man, through boredom.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Not quite. I left home as soon as I could but I was there when he died. Why don’t you talk to her again? Explain how you feel.”
“She knows how I feel.”
“Don’t you think that here, on your own territory, it might be a bit different?”
There was a pause. “Perhaps,” Rachael said.
“Worth a try then.”
“Before we leave. Yes.”
“And tomorrow we’re off to do Vera’s dirty work,” Anne said.
“It looks like it.”
“She can’t really think Edmund killed his daughter.” She hesitated. “I was wondering if she was making up all that stuff about Nancy to put us off the scent. It seems as if it’s an elaborate game to her but she’s deadly serious. Do you think she knows who the murderer is but doesn’t have the evidence to make an arrest?”
“Are you saying she suspects one of us?”
“No… I don’t know… She and Edie are pretty thick. She hasn’t let anything slip to her?”
“If she had,” Rachael said bitterly, “Edie hasn’t passed it on.”
“Don’t worry about it then. Perhaps I’ve just got a suspicious nature.” Anne went out, closing the door behind her, leaving Rachael to wonder what the exchange had really been about. She switched off the bedside lamp and lay in the milky gleam of the midsummer night.
Through the open window came the sound of water rattling over pebbles.
Chapter Forty.
The almshouses were in the old centre of Kimmerston, reached by a narrow alley from the main street. They featured as postcards of the town and occasionally tourists wandered into the courtyard to gawp.
They were listed buildings and, although not practical for wheelchairs or zimmer frames, the courtyard was still cobbled.
Rachael and Anne arrived in late afternoon. It was very hot. In the distance there was the buzz of traffic, but the courtyard was deserted.
There was no noise from the grey stone houses.
Then a door opened and a small middle-aged woman emerged. She wore a striped shirt and jacket and held a shiny black handbag under her chin as she used both hands to pull to the heavy warped door and lock it.
She hurried across the cobbles, stiletto heels clattering.
“Excuse me!” Anne shouted.
She stopped, turned on her heels, looked at her watch in annoyance.
“Yes?”
“We’re looking for the warden.”
“You’ve found her but I can’t stop. There’s a trustee meeting and I’m late already.”
“We were hoping to speak to Nancy Deakin.”
“What do you want with her?”
“A chat, that’s all. She doesn’t get many visitors, does she?”
“That’s not my fault.” The warden was immediately defensive. “We’ve all tried but she’s hardly sociable.”
“Has anyone been to see her lately?”
“I haven’t seen anyone and she hasn’t said. But then she wouldn’t.
You’re welcome to have a go. Number four. Don’t drink the tea.” She turned and teetered on.
It was very bright in the courtyard and when the front door of the cottage was opened a crack, at first they couldn’t make out the shadowy figure inside.
“Miss. Deakin?” Anne asked. “Nancy?”
The door shut again. Anne banged on it with her fist.
“Perhaps we should go.” Rachael was embarrassed. She imagined people staring from the blank net-covered windows. Anne took no notice and hit the door again. “We’re friends of Grace’s,” she shouted. “Nancy, can you hear me?”
The door opened. Nancy Deakin was very old and here, inside this house, with its latticed windows and steep roof she looked like a witch in a children’s picture book. She wore a long woollen skirt and a black cardigan with holes in the elbows. She glared at them, then spoke in a series of splutters and coughs which neither woman could understand.
“Can we come in?” Throughout the visit Anne Preece took the lead.
Rachael thought the business at Baikie’s had mellowed her. At one time she would have refused to do Vera Stanhope’s dirty work, but here she was, her foot against the door so the old woman couldn’t shut it on them again.
Nancy felt in the pocket of her cardigan and brought out a pair of enormous false teeth, covered in black fluff. She put them into her mouth and bared the teeth like a caged animal.